Chapter 120: Internal Turmoil
The meeting room at Eastern Coast reeked of expensive cigar smoke and unspoken fear. The walls, paneled in dark mahogany, were lined with framed photos of Qian Baoqing shaking hands with Beitian's elites—mayors, tycoons, even a few celebrities. But today, those smiles felt mocking. Qian Baoqing paced the room, his polished leather shoes clicking sharply against the marble floor, his jaw clamped so tight his cheek muscles bulged.
"You idiots!" he snapped, stopping to glare at the dozen subordinates lined up before him. "Explain this to me. *Explain* how our security guards—*my* security guards—publicly insult a doctor, get beaten half to death by a mob, and drag Eastern Coast's name through the mud. How?!"
No one spoke. The air hung thick with dread. For years, Qian had ruled his empire with a mix of charm and cruelty. He'd built Eastern Coast into Beitian's most glamorous nightclub, a hub where politicians and criminals rubbed shoulders, where deals were struck over champagne and secrecy. He'd bided his time, waiting to expand, to tighten his grip on the city. And now? His own men had lit a fuse under it all.
Three disasters in as many days: the internet rumors painting Eastern Coast as a den of drugs and depravity; the young junkie collapsing outside, foaming at the mouth, screaming proof of their "shady business"; and now this—his guards assaulting an old doctor, turning the public against them. To Qian, they reeked of sabotage. Coincidence? He didn't believe in coincidence. Someone was pulling strings, and he intended to find out who.
A Xin and A Long sat rigid in their chairs, their heads bowed. They'd failed to guard the girl—*the* girl, the one who might be Ding Shihan—and now they shrank under Qian's gaze, knowing their mistake hung over the room like a guillotine.
Qian's eyes landed on two young men, A Wei and A Ping, who oversaw Eastern Coast's daily security. "You two. Talk. How did this spiral so far, so fast?"
A Wei paled, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Boss, we—we didn't think it would get out of hand. The guards were drunk, they lost their tempers—"
"*Drunk*?!" Qian roared, slamming a fist into the mahogany table. A glass ashtray skidded off, shattering against the wall. "I pay you to *control* them! I told you a hundred times—*act like saints* in front of the public. Smile, bow, pretend we're better than the animals they think we are. And what do you do? Let them kick a dying kid? Insult an old man? You've handed our enemies a noose, and you expect me to thank you?!"
A Ping dropped to his knees, A Wei scrambling to follow. "We're sorry, boss! We'll fix it—"
"Fix it?" Qian laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "How? By telling the mob 'oops'? By begging the doctor to forget he was spat on? You've turned Eastern Coast into a joke. A *bloodied* joke." He nodded to his enforcers, stationed by the door. "Take them. Fifty lashes. Make sure they remember why they work for me."
A Wei and A Ping's screams echoed as they were dragged out. "Boss, please! We'll do anything!" But Qian didn't flinch. He'd built his empire on fear; mercy was a luxury he couldn't afford.
The room fell silent, save for the distant, sickening *crack* of a whip and muffled cries. The remaining subordinates stared at their shoes, their breath shallow. Even the air seemed to thicken, as if waiting for the next strike.
Qian's gaze shifted to A Xin and A Long. "Stand."
They rose, their legs trembling. A Long, ever the brute, opened his mouth to defend himself, but A Xin elbowed him sharply—*shut up*.
Qian circled them, slow as a shark. "You two are my right hands. My *confidants*. And yet… you let the girl slip through your fingers. Explain."
A Long blurted, "She was strong, boss! Faster than she looked—"
"*Strong*?" Qian cut him off, his voice icy. "You're paid to overpower 'strong.' You're a tank with fists, and you let a *woman* outrun you? Pathetic." He turned to A Xin, his tone colder. "And you. You're supposed to be the smart one. The planner. How did you miss this?"
A Xin's throat went dry. He'd replayed the escape a hundred times—her quick thinking, the way she'd used the crowd to her advantage. He should've seen it coming. "I was careless, boss. It won't happen again."
"Careless." Qian repeated the word, as if tasting it. "Careless gets people killed. Careless lets rumors fester. What if she *is* Ding Shihan? You know what happens if the press finds out we held her? We'll be torn apart. By the public, by her fans, by the officials who've been lining their pockets with our money. They'll disavow us faster than you can blink."
A Xin nodded, his jaw tight. He knew the stakes. Ding Shihan wasn't just a star—she was a national treasure. Her face was on billboards, her songs on every radio. To harm her was to declare war on Beitian's pride.
Qian stopped pacing, fixing them with a stare. "Twenty lashes each. And after that? You're on lockdown. No more missions. No more decisions. Just guard the doors. Understand?"
A Long sputtered, "Twenty lashes? But—"
"*Understand*?" Qian roared.
A Long flinched. "Y-yes, boss."
A Xin bowed his head. "Thank you, boss."
He knew what this meant. Qian no longer trusted him. The "lockdown" was a cage—punishment, but also a warning. Cross him again, and it wouldn't be lashes.
The enforcers dragged them out, and soon, the whip cracked again—sharper, harder than before. A Xin bit back a groan as the first lash hit, but in his mind, he was already planning. He'd find the girl. He'd prove his loyalty. Or die trying.
Qian turned to the remaining subordinates, his voice calm now, but deadlier for it. "Listen closely. The next mistake? The next *whisper* of trouble? And you'll wish you'd taken the lashes. Eastern Coast doesn't fall because of fools. Am I clear?"
They chorused, "Yes, boss."
He waved them away, and the room emptied, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He picked up a photo from his desk—himself, grinning with a young official, now a minister. *Loyalty*, he thought, *is a lie*. Everyone had a price.
But someone was paying a steep one to bring him down.
He reached for his phone, dialing a number. "Find the junkie," he said, his voice low. "And dig up everything on that doctor. Whoever he is, he's costing me more than I like."
The line went dead. Qian stared at the shattered ashtray, his mind racing.
The rumors, the escape, the doctor—they were all threads. And he intended to yank them until he found the hand holding the spool.
Whoever was behind this, they were about to learn: Qian Baoqing didn't fall. He *burned* back.
And Beitian was about to get very, very hot.